A Sherlock AU
by Z.C.A
Summary: Sherlock AU. What if John had been delayed and he had never stumbled across his old friend or met Sherlock that day? What if Sherlock's website had never been glanced at and he had never started working for the police, with Lestrade? What if John was the brand new target of a man who was constantly bored with the world? M for future violence etc.
1. Chapter 1

**Short chapters = quicker updates. Will end up quite fun and angsty ;) Enjoy.**

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John Watson was a quiet man, not a loud or proud or obnoxious man, just quiet. To any normal eye he seemed like the perfect all around guy, his short blond hair kept neat and clean, his clothes looked comfortable but tidy. He never spoke out of turn, looked at you the wrong way or even blinked like someone with any faults. Nobody would have guessed that the crutch he carried and the limp he wore were remnants of a forgotten past of violence, of murder, bloodshed… of war.

John had been to his psychiatrist earlier that morning about the limp, it was psychosomatic she had said. 'Rubbish. I had been shot for Christ's sake and that had hardly been in my head.' It was compulsory though, to go at least once, after he returned from battle, as it was for all the other damned soldiers and even now he still pondered what she had said. 'Write a blog? What on earth for? Don't need blogs…no, not me.' He thought. His limped gait heightened as he strode along the footpath, thinking of what to do next. He only brought a few things with him to London, all packed away in storage. He had lost everything after the war, not that he really had much to begin with. Just an ordinary lad, his sister Harriet, a mother and father, both passed away at ripe old ages.

He needed a place to live. A flat of sorts but he just couldn't afford it, not any place decent at least. And he dare not ask Harry for help. 'Oh the scorn she'd give me, just like the bloody phone.' His hand grasped at the hand-me-down cellphone in his dark coat pocket. Now his limp began to aggravate him more and he sat down on the empty park bench to rest a moment and think. There had been a sign up for a shared apartment back near the airport he remembered, thought he might as well give it a look.

It took three subways, a bus and taxi ride to get back to the old apartment building he had spotted before and as he limped toward the block of brick before him he felt a little more content. 'Baker street, it certainly sounded nice.' He thought, perhaps this would work out, the rent shouldn't be too bad if he could share it and the apartment was opposite Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café which he thought would be helpful if he needed a quick bite to eat during the day.

He stepped up to the door… 222A & B was scratched, as if almost by a nail on the faded green panel. He knocked cautiously and leant on his crutch as he heard a stumble and a crash of boxes behind the door, "Eh..ah comin! Won't be a tick!" The door opened to reveal a slightly greasy young man, adorned with a white singlet and dark blue jeans. "Can I 'elp you?" His accent slurred slightly and John sighed internally as he realised the man was stoned, the baked smell wafting out of the apartment.

"Ah…I have come about the apartment?" He started but the grungy man had already pressed the key to his chest, dirtying the front of John's sweater with a smudge of grey. "If yers can pay it yers can have it, upstairs on ya left." And then he was gone, leaving a slightly startled ex-soldier holding the grubby key at the doorstep, staring up the stairs toward a fairly plain door. He took a step inside and after a few minutes he had inspected the upstairs rooms and found them to his liking, if not needing a clean. He pocketed the key with a slight smile, maybe things would go alright after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Again, just as short = just a quick. Updating soon. Please review.**

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Sherlock Holmes sat alone in the apartment of 221B Baker Street, the landlady was pottering downstairs and had given him the flat for a cheaper price, knowing that nobody could stand to live with the high functioning sociopathic mind of the dark, curly haired man. She herself stayed clear of the wannabe detective's presence as more than once she had had her head near ripped off for interrupting his thoughts.

The genius took a seat and opened his laptop to his own page. No views. He sighed, Sherlock had not seen a good mystery for years, barely ever, and he was struggling to pay for rent let alone food, not that he really bothered to eat anymore. He was stick thin and tall; his bones stuck out through his cheeks and made him look gaunt and tired, almost scarce in appearance. His arms were littered in nicotine patches, a dozen between each of his arms and yet they never seemed to relieve his mind like they used to on those days when no bodies had fallen, no mysteries were around for him to solve. Sherlock had returned to conspiracy theories, a few of his ideas getting around but most, though he believed them to be true, caused others to think him a fool. He knew it wasn't helping his appearance.

So now Mr Holmes had turned to another, darker path and like a moth drawn to a flame he was entranced by the idea, though he knew he would get burned if he got too close. The unnoticed genius began to create his own puzzles, mysteries for the police of Scotland Yard to wreck their minds trying to figure out as bodies began to turn up in the strangest of ways, and people vanished from under their noses, even from within the station itself. Sherlock had killed a total of three people in the past month; from each one he took a shape from the skin of their shoulders.

A puzzle piece.

None of the victims were known criminals, not to the police anyway… but Sherlock knew, he knew the sins of every one of them. How Miss Maria Welsh had seduced several men to her apartment, luring them to do her bidding, leaving her Husband, a local shop owner to work late to afford her luxurious tastes. He had left her hanging, as if by a cross, in the middle of the town square, completely undetected by a single person, unseen even by cameras, a master of disguise.

It wasn't until the following morning when Scotland Yard was called in by a terrified mother who had been taking her children to day-care when she had seen the crucifixion above them.

Or how Mr Donald Strouse, a seemingly calm, collected bank worker, had been filtering and selling drugs, cocaine and marijuana mostly, to the thugs that littered the back streets of London and was slowly planning to build up a group and lead them in to strip his own workplace of all the money it banked, of all the pockets of the people of the city. He knew he had to be stopped, he had watched him carefully from the widow of 221B Baker street as he loitered in one of his most common alleys opposite the apartment. It hadn't taken more than a second to convince Mr Strouse of his addiction, and then he was in. Sherlock held his struggling form below the ocean line that following day, took his piece of the puzzle and placed the body in the net of a fishing boat that sailed frequently.

It was at this time, finding the second body with its square puzzle piece of skin removed, that they knew they had a serial killer on their hands. The coroners returned each results, no DNA found belonging to anything other than the victim, not a trace, the cause of death was different each time and they could find no link between the first two kills. It was then that they found the third body that month,

a woman by the name of Irene Adler.


End file.
